


Hysteria

by TehChou



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles is Never Not Drunk, Charles' stupid attractive wrists, Crossdressing, Erik is a Troll, Forced Feminization, M/M, corsets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Charles, Erik decides one day when he’s indulged a few too many, has very delicate wrists. Very delicate and very frail. Dove-like.</i></p><p>Erik really does know how to appreciate a man in a dress. Charles is not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hysteria

Charles, Erik decides one day when he’s indulged a few too many, has very delicate wrists. Very delicate and very frail. Dove-like.

Charles makes a drunk cooing noise and giggles from where his face is pressed against the wood of the bar. Erik gives the rest of his drink a disgusted look and cuts himself off for the night.

 

He’s beautiful when he smiles, mouth red and sweet. Any woman would be proud of the bow of his lips, the color in them. Envious because they already look artificial, like they’ve been painted on.

Erik doesn’t know why he keeps thinking like this.

Two weeks after they meet, Erik gets to taste those lips first-hand. They’re not as sweet as he’d first imagined, but their flavor is infinitely more subtle.

 

This _thing_ , this obsession Erik seems to have with Charles’ softer traits climbs to a ridiculous level when they’re in the kitchen one day. They’re fixing sandwiches for the children’s lunch and Charles keeps snitching the various fixings and popping them into his mouth as he chatters.

He swallows a calamata olive and his eyelashes flutter as he moans in appreciation.

Erik is pretty sure that moan should be effecting him more then the repetitive sweep of his obscenely long lashes.

When Erik manages to drag his gaze away from the sight he’s greeted with a slice of lunch meat lying shredded between his hands. He dissolves into laughter that Charles only half understands, but is happy to join in on, anyways.

 

He’s paused at a stop light, car rumbling beneath him, around him, metal gripped in his fingers when he sees her.

She’s very slight, pale, hair black and curly and covered in a sun hat. Her dress is a subdued fuchsia and hangs loose around her frame.

She looks like Charles.

Erik loses a few minutes at the thought, eyes gone blind and unseeing, heart pounding in his ears. He only comes to a few minutes later to the cacophony of horns blaring behind him. Erik curses loudly and the tires screech beneath the pressure of his foot on the gas as he takes off, again.

Mercifully, Charles is not in the car when he has his revelation. Erik rather likes the idea that he’ll have a chance to digest this before Charles plucks it from his mind and examines it like a slide beneath a microscope.

Or at the very least, have enough time pull over so he can beat his head against the steering wheel, each impact punctuated by mournful beeping.

 

But of course, he shouldn’t have worried, had more faith in Charles enthusiasm for his new project. When he gets back to the hotel Charles simply looks up with a bright smile on his face, hunched over a map. He’s got his finger on a little speck in New Jersey and when Erik closes the door he breaks into an animated discussion on the lengths of highway they’ll need to transgress to get there.

 

Erik’s mind doesn’t give up his guilty thought, though. It keeps noticing the way Charles’ neck arcs, the creamy quality of his skin. He wakes on more occasions then he’d like to admit from dreams and day dreams, the contents of which his waking mind shies away from.

Eventually, he’s forced to concede that it’s just one more way in which he’s twisted and once he’s accepted that, well, then his subconscious goes a little wild.

Distressingly, sometimes without Erik’s entire volition, it plots.

 

Charles is looking down at the daily with a bemused expression. His finger traces the ink, mouth shaping soundless words as his brow furrows.

“Something the matter,” Erik asks, not expecting Charles to jump at the sudden verbal announcement of his presence. He doesn’t.

“There’s a gala,” he says, not looking up. “And I have no idea who’s throwing it or who any of the guests are.”

Erik quirks a brow.

“And this is an issue?”

Charles looks up, then and Erik can’t stave off the flash of sympathy that knots in his gut. Something in Charles’ expression is lost, melancholy.

“I- Yes. When I was younger, I would have. My. . . “ he grimaces, takes a little breath. “My father would have. Known everyone, more than likely. Who was related to who. I. . . don’t. Anymore.”

“Then we should go,” Erik blurts, before Charles can say anything else. It’s impulsive, too quick. Clumsy. He doesn’t let himself think about it.

Charles looks startled, then his expression softens. He stands, carefully makes his way across the room like he’s trying not to spook an edgy horse. Erik feels his lips purse, but when Charles lifts up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to them, they open obligingly, sucking him in.

“They’re humans, Erik,” Charles says when they draw back. Erik huffs a sigh out his nose.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” he says, flippantly. “Find a mutant. It doesn’t matter. This is important to you. One night among humans isn’t going to kill me.” A flash of guilt that he quickly swallows. Charles look goes a little sharper, cutting, but as far as Erik can tell, he doesn’t pry.

“Truthfully, it’s not you I’m worried about,” he says, with a trace of good humor. “But alright, my friend. We’ll do it.” There’s curiosity lit in his eyes; he’s positively glowing with it.

And just like that, Charles’ suspicion hovering between them like punctuation mark, it’s turned into a game between them. Another round of chess.

Erik fully intends to win.

 

“He has a gut,” Erik says, stiffly. “And he continues to be stubborn on the subject. He’s reintroducing himself to society, he needs to be presentable or no one will take him seriously.”

The tailor chews on the ends of his fitting needles and he deftly pins the outline of a man onto a block. Erik feels each impact like a phantom sting. He ignores it.

“You want me to make him something slimming,” he reiterates, talking out the side of his mouth that doesn’t look like a pin cushion. Erik waits until the man looks at him, curious, then he smiles, flashing his teeth.

“Precisely.” He gestures to his waist. “Especially here, in this area.”

The tailor carefully sets down the pins in his hand, takes the others from between his lips.

“A cut like you’re asking for makes more sense on a woman,” he rejoins, abrupt, like he’s used to talking customers out of what he views as terrible decisions. Erik narrows his eyes, gestures to the rack of fitted undershirts and vests he has on display.

“It wouldn’t be the first time someone asked for something similar, would it,” he replies, deliberately misunderstanding.

The tailor goes gratifyingly pale at the cant of his tone, low and dangerous. It’s not deathly so, but Erik is satisfied. He flashes his teeth, again, for good measure.

“Besides, it would be a fitting admonishment to his excess, would it not?”

The tailor nods a touch warily, mostly confused. Erik’s smile grows.

“Good. Glad we could come to an agreement.”

 

So it is that Charles, in good humor, submits himself to being poked and prodded, turned, form toyed with and ordered about. Erik watches from the door of the sitting room, leaned against the edge, arms folded across his chest.

“Oh Erik. My family has their own personal tailor, you know,” Charles says, arms held straight out to the sides, eyes flashing with mirth. A thin length of yellow measuring tape is slung about his hips.

“Can you suck in your gut, please,” the tailor murmurs unobtrusively. Charles does as he’s asked and the tape shifts higher.

“Breath out, Charles,” Erik chides. “I prefer this one. Not interested in whoever taught you how to dress.” He shakes his head minutely at the tailor, discreetly gestures that the dip needs to come a little higher. He purses his lips, but complies. Charles flashes the man squatting at his side a curious look, but returns his attention back to Erik quickly enough.

“I dress perfectly fine. In fact, I have a whole closet of suits that would be fitting.” Charles clearly thinks he’s being reasonable. Erik snorts. Yes. He’s seen them.

“They look like something from the 80’s,” he insists, dryly. Charles rolls his eyes.

“They were my father’s, Erik, not my _grand_ father’s. They’re from the turn of the century, the 20’s at least. I had them fitted to me just two years ago.”

“Then your father had grossly old fashioned taste,” Erik replies. He nods in satisfaction at the tailor, who sighs, cringing, but jots down the number in compliance. He seems relieved to at least move on to less uncomfortable proceedings.

When they’re finished, Erik dutifully orders two three piece suits from him and demands a copy of Charles’ sizes.

“Just in case,” he tells the tailor, a hint of warning, though truthfully the tailor’s already played his part admirably. He leaves him there with a wad of cash and a dissatisfied expression on his face.

“I can’t believe you think I’m fat,” Charles says sadly when Erik slides into the car next to him. “I run everyday, for heaven’s sake.”

Erik rolls his eyes and gives his stomach a pointed look.

“You rather moot that by devouring half the pastries in the mansion when you return, Charles,” he replies blandly, though his mouth is twitching at the corners. Charles sighs dramatically and flops back against the cushioned seat.

“I’m not going to win this one, am I,” he muses, forlornly. Erik huffs a laugh and starts the car.

“No, **_Schatz_** , you’re not.”

Charles sighs, again, then gives in to his good humored nature and laughs along with him as Erik pulls away from the curb.

 

“I need something for my wife,” he says at the next shop. The man smiles brightly.

“Of course,” he says.

A male, Erik had decided, had a distinct disadvantage creating comfort in a woman’s clothing. He’d refused to consider the best, hunted for someone much less highly recommended to augment this theory.

“Here are her measurements,” and he stretches across the distance between them, the little yellow slip of paper clasped between his fingers. “She’s liable to throw a fit if she knows the type of shops I’ve considered.” The man laughs, clearly at home with such concepts.

“Don’t worry, I know how to be discreet,” he tosses a look over his shoulder as he wafts towards a rack of slips. “Though of course you’re aware she’s going to figure it out eventually due to the nature of the product, yes?”

“I was actually looking for something a little more adjustable. Hopefully she’ll be losing weight, soon and I’d prefer not to waste money on something that can’t change with her. And yes. I am aware of that little hiccup.”

“Hmm,” the man replies, noncommittally and adjusts his course. “Something more akin to this, then?”

Erik smiles.

“Perfect.”

 

“You’re going to show up with an elephant,” Charles crows triumphantly, giddy on his third scotch. Erik barely has time to roll his eyes. “No, no, you’re right, of course that’s ridiculous. Where would you even get an elephant?”

“I hear the Chicago zoo just acquired one,” Erik replies, sipping his own martini a titch more modestly. He rather likes to enjoy his drinks.

Charles’ eyes go wide in amusement, then he droops when he realizes Erik is joking. Alcohol seems to confuse Charles’ other sense. Not dampen it, exactly, but he tends to have a harder time making sense of all the information he receives. Erik gets the impression he likes it that way, if the amount of time he spends inebriated is anything to go by.

“I’m not going to give it away through a game of twenty plus questions, Charles.” He leans back, crosses his legs. “Unless you plan on plucking it from my mind, this line of thought is fruitless.”

Charles immediately ghosts a hand over his temple, leans in, eyes going impossible wide.

“I could,” he agrees, gleeful. The he drops his hand, sighs and rearranges himself into a slump. “But I won’t.”

“It wouldn’t be any fun,” Erik agrees and swallows the last of his drink.

 

He visits the secound tailor exactly thrice more.

“No,” he says, firmly when the man shows him his concepts. “She has a terrible figure, like a board. Her breasts are flat. It needs to shape her better, all around.” He makes a cutting motion with his hand, tight from left to right. His watch flashes as his shirt sleeve rides up. The man gives him an odd look and Erik thinks perhaps he’s being a little too enthusiastic, but he can’t bring himself to care. There’s two weeks until the gala and he’ll have plenty of time to play nice with the humans, then. The man makes a few adjustments on his paper until Erik is satisfied.

“Any thoughts on the material,” he asks as he scribbles.

“Something with metal woven into the thread. On the laces. Silver or gold. The boning should be copper. I don’t care about the rest.”

“Hmm, alright. That can be arranged. Do you know what kind of dress is going over it?”

Erik freezes, eyes going wide. No. No he does not.

 

“You trust me,” he says when they’re in bed together. It’s not a question. Charles curls up a little tighter, tucks his head under Erik’s chin. The silken strands of his hair tickle Erik’s jaw.

“Of course,” he mumbles.

“You shouldn’t. I’m cruel. I’ll hurt you.”

Charles laughs into his collar bone, breathy with sleep.

“I doubt I’d mind too much.”

And it’s dirty and it’s not entirely what Erik’s getting at, but it fits. Sleeping is easier that night, if only because he doesn’t have to feel so guilty about how little he seems to mind the thought of Charles’ discomfort.

 

“Peach,” he says, whirling into the shop a few days later. “The dress is peach. Satin _what have you done to his ass?_ ” The tailor gives him a funny look. Erik coughs. “Uh, her,” he corrects.

“This is how it’s meant to be, Mr. Lehnsherr. I know they’re undergarments, but they’re not meant to be _obscene_.”

“ _I like her ass,_ ” he grinds out, glaring hotly at the dummy set up high on the table, it’s backside a flat board more fitting for playing chess then putting on display. “It’s one of the few things about her that works.”

He lays the long fabric bag with the the dress hanging on its padded wire onto the table beside it.

“And make this fit, too. There’s an extra yard if you need to _expand_ on anything,” he adds through his teeth, then he leaves the shop, the tailor shell shocked, blinking after him in confusion.

 

It’s a few days before the gala when Erik comes in to find Charles at the kitchen table. There’s two suits laid out in boxes beside him, the cut of their fabric pristine against the tissue paper cradling them.

Next to them lies another a box, this one decidedly more feminine. Charles is looking at it in perplexity, reading a note that apparently came with it. He looks up as Erik crosses into the room.

“So you’ve invited Raven along,” he asks, then he scolds: “You should have let me get her measurements for you. You’ve flustered the poor . . . fellow? Why would you get a man to make women’s underwear? Why in the world are you _buying_ her underwear? And what did you do to him to make him not even want to let you pick up whatever you got her?”

Erik doesn’t reply, just looks at him steadily, lets him talk it out.

“It is a very lovely dress, though. A bit long about the legs for her, I believe. Unfortunately I don’t think we’ll have time to send it back in, but we should be able to make do with a few adjustments.”

He stops, abruptly. Stares at the dress. Stares some more.

“. . . .It’s not for her, is it.”

“No,” Erik agrees. “No it’s not.”

Charles looks at him, then, a nervous flush to his cheeks.

“Erik, I- this isn’t- I don’t think- These are my parents _friends_.”

“You said it yourself, Charles. You don’t know any of them and I get the distinct feeling they won’t recognize you, either.” In direct contrast to Charles’ nervous stuttering, Erik’s voice is smooth, steady. Erik knows quite for certain they don’t recognize him. He’d been on the phone with the gentle proprietor the day before.

“My god, important to me, really? This wasn’t for me at all, was it? You sly dog.” Charles barks a laugh, cards a hand through his hair. Erik takes a step into the room, catches his wrist before he can put it down. He twists him with gentle pressure until he’s looking Erik in the eye, water into steel.

“On the contrary, _Schatz_ , this involves you rather entirely.”

Charles licks his lips.

“Alright,” he says, quietly. “Alright,” and Erik smiles.

 

He keeps giving the box surreptitious looks all through dinner. After Charles and the dress had met in the kitchen, Erik had carefully folded it back into its casing, gathered up all the extra formal wear and taken it into Charles’ study. It’s there that they’ve decided to sup tonight, away from the eyes of the children. Charles is glad enough that he doesn’t have to make small talk, though he’s always done it after personally uncomfortable discussions with admirable skill. Erik is simply relishing the chance to tease him.

“Perhaps I should just, you know. Maybe it doesn’t fit,” Charles says, halfway through a forkful of rosemary encrusted potato.

“It will fit,” Erik replies, and digs into his peas. Charles chews, swallows. Opens his mouth around another bite and can’t seem to help himself speaking, instead.

“I just, maybe-”

“Not until the evening before,” Erik replies.

“ _Erik_.”

“Your chicken’s getting cold.”

Charles huffs and attacks the offending poultry with reckless abandon.

“You’re impossible,” he complains.

“Thank you.”

 

It’s two nights before the gala and Erik comes into the study to find Charles sitting in a chair. He’s facing a book case, where he’s hung up the garments. He’s got a rock crystal tumbler clenched between his fingers, dangling between his legs. He’s hunched over, leaning forward like he’s having a staring contest with the outfit. The matching decanter is sitting by his heel, over three quarters empty. Erik has no doubt it was full, earlier. Erik sighs and takes a chair from another area of the room, swings it around so he can sit next to him.

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to, you know. I’m certainly not going to force you, and you have two perfectly new suits right there on the desk.”

Charles makes a face. He’s drunk enough that in places the motion is aborted. Erik, with the grace of sober men everywhere, gallantly doesn’t make fun of him for it.

“And let me guess, they’re tailored the same way as the- the-” he can’t seem to finish, just flushes and takes an irritable and slightly unsteady swallow of his drink, instead. Erik shrugs.

“Only the vest. I’m sure even your pathetic wardrobe has something suitable. Excuse the pun.”

Charles sighs, loudly.

“How about this,” Erik goes on, struck by a idea. “We’ll play for it.” And it’s not fair, it really isn’t, but damned if Erik isn’t going to go ahead with it, anyways.

“No, it’s not fair,” Charles agrees with Erik’s thoughts, sadly, but he sets the glass down anyways and stands. He picks his way unsteadily towards the chess board and looks down at it. He seems to realize after a moment that the chair he’s moved is usually the one sitting at the board and he makes a frustrated face. Erik does laugh, then, moves to wrap his arms around him.

“My lap is more comfortable, anyways,” he says against the shell of his ear. Charles makes a considering noise, and nods approvingly, pragmatic.

“This is also true.”

And so follows the most pathetically one-sided beginning of a chess game they’ve ever played. Charles continually ignores his telepathy and Erik regularly interrupts his thought process by jarring him, rolling his hips in a pointed manner against his arse.

“Stop that,” Charles mumbles, trying to decide between moving his knight or his tower and grinding down on Erik in apparent attempt to still him. Erik bites his lip and hisses as his swollen cock throbs rather painfully. Charles reaches over the board, apparently having made a decision, giving a moments respite to Erik’s poor abused flesh. Erik takes the secound to breathe and prepare himself for when Charles-

Sits the crack of his ass down _directly_ over the bulge in his trousers.

“Damn you, Charles,” he growls and reaches around him to topple his queen. Charles make a noise of dismay and shifts his weight from hip to hip, clearly lost in the logistics of what’s just happened to him.

Erik surges up so hard the chess board topples onto the ground, and both their bodies follow. Erik presses Charles’ stupid attractive wrists into the expensive rug and bites at his lips as he snarls.

He would have won, anyways.

Afterwards they’re laying on the ground, rolled onto their backs panting. Erik’s pants are around his ankles, Charles’ shirt lays hanging open and about three of the buttons are scattered somewhere across the room. He waves a hand expansively at the ceiling.

“I’ll do it. No one will say Charles Xavier is a coward. I’ll do it.”

He gropes blindly next to him, until his hand finds the cold glass of the decanter. He swigs the last mouthful of scotch, sets the glass bottle down with a great show of deliberation and promptly passes out.

Erik sighs and eventually heaves himself to his feet, trying and mostly succeeding in not tripping over his pant legs. At least he’s got his way.

 

Erik walks in on him the evening of the party with another decanter of scotch sitting a top the dresser. His hand is wrapped around a glass three fingers lengths full.

Erik comes up from behind and takes the glass from his hand. He presses his body up along his back and snakes a hand around his stomach.

“You’re not going to make fool of my in front of a group of strangers, Charles,” he says in his ear. Charles struggles half-heartedly in his grip, glaring at him in the mirror above the dresser.

“I’m hardly going to wilt from a glass, Erik,” he says, irritably. “Despite what you apparently think of me.” Erik quirks a brow at him over his shoulder, sets the glass down on the dresser.

“And of course, I trust you to stop at a glass, hmm,” he hums, dryly. He ducks down to press a kiss to the side of his cheek. “There will be plenty to drink at the party, Charles,” his expression goes dubiously innocent. “Don’t these places usually have an open bar?” As predicted, Charles takes the bait, making an indignant noise in the back of his throat.

“ _Wines that cost thousands of dollars a glass, Erik_. Open bar,” he huffs, then dissolves into giggles, turning around in Erik’s arms and burying his face in his shoulder. “You’re really making me do this, aren’t you?”

Erik rubs a hand along his back.

“No one’s making you do anything, darling,” he answers, carefully. Charles bites his collar bone in passing, then looks up at him.

“You’re holding me to a ridiculous drunken promise,” he scowls, though there’s a slightly manic glitter of humor in his eyes. Erik just looks at him. Charles sighs and steps back out of the circle of his arms. He goes over to the bed where the box lies open, spilling its contents across the sheets. He reaches down and fingers the fabric, running a hand over it, feeling it. There’s a faint blush colouring his cheeks.

“I don’t think I’ve ever dressed in satin, before,” he says, quietly.

“It’s a silk blend. Very chic,” Erik answers awkwardly, hands fluttering at his sides. Now that the moments here, actually here, he’s a lot more worried, less sure of what he’s asking. He doesn’t even know if Charles _likes_ peach for heaven’s sake.

“No, no the colour’s fine,” Charles says absently, not looking up. He takes the dress out of the box and lays it flat on the bed, smoothing it out with his palms. Then, he removes the other garment, holding it stiffly in his hands. He strokes his thumb over the fabric. The laces glint in the light. Erik feels them flutter, feels the boning warm with Charles’ body heat. He jerks forward, almost against his own volition and takes it from him.

“Let me,” he says. Charles blinks, lets it ghost from his fingers.

“Do you- do you even know what to do with it?”

Erik flips it over on the bed, long fingers deftly undoing the hooks at the back. Charles watches him, their arms brushing.

The third time Erik had gone to visit the second tailor had been that very afternoon. The owner hadn’t been particularly enthused to see him standing in his shop, again. Erik didn’t really care.

Together they’d stood in front of a mannequin, the man running through the basics as quickly as he could.

“This is where you attach the stockings to. You need to be gentle with them or they’ll run. Don’t try to hook them anywhere but the thick lip.”

Erik nodded along agreeably with everything he told him. Anything he doesn’t quite catch he’s confident he’ll be able to work around with the additions he’s made.

“And these,” the tailor said, running his fingers over the ties on the sides. “Do not pull these too tight. This is a very Victorian style you’ve had me recreate here. Your wife could very well pass out from lack of oxygen.”

Erik had kept his face impassive and refrained from comment.

“Yes,” Erik replies, back in the present as he spreads it open, face downwards over the comforter. Charles doesn’t reply, but undresses slowly, eyeing it and turns obligingly when Erik holds it up.

It’s around then that he notices. He has to pause for a very long moment. Charles shifts, an air of confusion. Then he stills and Erik thinks, perhaps, he feels him smile.

“You shaved,” Erik says. Charles shrugs one bare lightly freckled shoulder.

“I figured I have to look the part, yes?”

The wave of lust that over takes Erik at that moment is blinding, worse, far worse then the day in the car when he’d seen the girl. This is all encompassing, Charles complicit, now. It takes him a very long moment to wrestle himself back under control until he’s ready to step forward, reaching around him with the garment. He’s completely silent, not trusting himself to speak.

Charles takes a deep breath, chest expanding with the motion in a way that Erik is immediately drawn to. Charles steps into the legs holes, lets Erik pull it up around him. He closes his eyes, and carefully hitches it up around his arse himself. Frowning when it doesn’t immediately obey him, he squirms, shifting his hips. Erik stills him with a firm set of hands on the offending anatomy.

“Let me,” he murmurs, and grabs hold of the sides, palming Charles’ flesh until it’s properly settled over him. Charles swallows, still doesn’t open his eyes, but Erik thinks he can feel him rooting around in his head.

“It’s tight,” he says.

“It’s meant to be,” Erik replies, voice deceptively steady, and with a mental tug of power he zips up the back. Charles cringes as it grows even tighter. Erik rolls the front up over Charles’ chest, fingers smoothing over his stomach, stroking at the soft flesh, pressing in just a little. Charles squirms, scowls, eyebrows furrowing adorably.

“I still don’t have a pudge, Erik.”

Erik just hums against his ear, hands traveling up, over his chest, over the deflated rounded bumps beneath his collar bone. Charles says nothing, but Erik can feel him thinking, wondering how he’s ever going to fill them. The boning already presses uncomfortably into his sides. Erik pulls his arms through the straps, then steps back, leaving Charles to shiver a moment in the cool air. Charles latches onto one strap with the opposite hand, fingering the lacy material.

“Open your eyes,” Erik requests. Charles’ face twitches a little, but he takes a deep breath and complies, turning to face the full length mirror hanging against the wall.

He’s wrapped half-way in a full body corset. It’s cream colored, also made of some sort of satin blend like the dress. It comes just a bit down his thighs, spreading them a little apart between the legs and a little inward below the hips. Already, his waist is more pronounced, flaring. It’s difficult to close his legs completely. He shifts and winces. It’s tight around the crotch area, though apparently one of the adjustments Erik had made had involved making that area looser then was standard. There’s not quite a cup, but it’s close, though it’s still constraining. Charles has to adjust himself, grimacing and blushing high on his cheeks, even though Erik’s seen what’s inside his trousers many times already. Erik makes a noise behind him, a little punched out breath.

The flaps hanging open below his shoulders and above his waist are curved with the thick, but flat boning running vertical through the fabric. The stripes that are touching him along the front are warm against his skin, almost as if they’re living. Charles shudders and brings a hand up to touch one. He knows without having to look into Erik’s head that there’s metal beneath the satin. The thought makes something twist in gut, not even remotely unpleasant.

“Do you understand,” Erik asks, and there’s something hungry in his eyes. Charles reaches out to touch himself in the mirror, traces a finger over his figure. Erik’s eyes flash and the metal pressed into his front goes somehow, impossible more rigid. Charles’ eyebrows fly up.

“Having an issue, my friend?”

“I’m always having an issue around you,” Erik growls, shifting. The boning pulses and Charles closes his eyes, again, for just a moment.

“Fair enough,” he says. Erik moves around behind him, taking the forgotten decanter from the dresser. He uncorks it violently and take a swallow, muscles in his throat jumping. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and sets it back on the ancient wood with a thunk. Charles makes a noise and raises an eyebrow at him, but then Erik’s waving his hand and the corset is moving, closing up like the petals of a flower in reverse. The hooks he’d undone earlier with his bare hands slide back into place of their own volition, entrapping him. Erik runs a hand over Charles’ shoulder, slipping under the strap.

“Turn around,” Erik says. “Look at the back.” Charles gives him a glance over his shoulder, but complies, twisting around himself to see.

“Erik,” he says, blush going brighter, deeper. “This isn’t- It-” He trails off, staring, hands pressing against his waist in an effort to catch a glimpse of his arse in the mirror. Erik smirks, lips still glistening a little wetly from his drink..

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”

“I can’t wear this in public,” he hisses, eyes wide. The leggings that feel simply tight when he can’t see, in truth cradle his arse. It lifts his buttocks, separating and rounding them. It’s _filthy_ and Charles tells him so. Erik just takes him by the shoulders and gently maneuvers him until his back is entirely facing him once again.

Erik gives in to what little kindness he still possesses and hands him his still full tumbler. Charles downs it gratefully and gives it back, eyes never once leaving his figure in the mirror.

The waist and chest of the corset is lose enough for now, more like a form-fitting shirt then anything, but there’s a thin mesh running up and down his sides. The laces hang like a promise, looped in and out of metal rings, padded against his skin. As he watches them, they lift, floating. Charles instinctively raises his arms, gripping the sides of the mirror, chewing his lip and panting in and out his nose. The corset slowly squeezes tighter around him, the dips and hills becoming apparent as it slowly shapes him.

Charles whines as it compresses his waist.

“Wait,” he explodes on a breath. “ _Erik wait_. I don’t-”

Erik rests a hand between his bent shoulder blades, rubs little circles into the muscle revealed beneath. They’ve been steadily pushed inwards along with his waist. The encroaching pressure pauses.

“It’s alright,” Erik murmurs, pressing a kiss into his hair. “It’s alright. Take a deep breath.”

“Yeah. I’ll- I’ll do that.” His breath continues to whistle rapidly in and out his nose.

“Charles,” Erik’s voice goes a little sharper. Charles lets his lungs expand.

“Good,” Erik says, voice ruffling his hair. “Now breathe out.”

As he does as he’s asked, the corset resumes it’s inward crawl. It follows him so closely Charles barely notices it happening, until he stops and goes to breathe in again and finds he can’t.

“Erik,” he hisses, eyes flying huge. The hand at his back rubs a little harder.

“It’s alright,” Erik repeats, steady. “Shallow breaths now.”

Charles grits his teeth, but complies.

“Good, now breathe out one more time and this time suck in your stomach like you did at the tailor’s the other week.”

Charles glares at the reflection of Erik hovering over his shoulder in the mirror.

“ _Erik_ ,” he repeats. Erik just looks at him, until cursing under his breath Charles complies.

This time the encroaching of the fabric is obvious, almost painfully so. Charles’ spine is bent into a high arc and he has to contort at the waist to remain gripping the mirror. He’s going a little light-headed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, and he barely has enough air in his lungs to make it count. The corset pulses around him one more time, but it mercifully doesn’t pull any tighter. Erik is apparently satisfied. Charles grinds his grit teeth. He _loathes_ cussing, especially from his own lips.

“One more thing,” Erik murmurs and he repositions him until Charles is forced to stand up straight. There’s a smaller bow resting just over the re-shaped curve of his arse, right in the small of his back. It tightens, now until Charles is unable to bend more then a few inches either forwards or backwards.

“How- am- I-,” he pants and stops, frustrated.

Now how am I supposed to sit down _,?_ >>

The question’s rhetorical at best. Charles can guess very easily by this point that Erik doesn’t intend him to.

“ _Oh Charles_ , look at you,” he says, instead. Charles licks his lips. He doesn’t want to, not really, but there’s something in Erik’s voice, coloring his thoughts, a _wonder_ and he finds himself doing it, anyway.

It’s- He looks-

He can’t quite explain it, what it’s done to him.

His waist, as he’d felt when it was happening, is much smaller. His hips flare out, seemingly wider then they were before, though he knows it’s simply an illusion. With every little panting breath he takes the empty cups over his chest flutter.

He should just look like himself in a ridiculous costume but somehow instead he looks. . . _feminine_.

His posture is phenomenal.

Erik touches him then, eyes half-lidded and pleased. He runs his palm along where his waist dips, the curve of his hip, squeezes his ass. Charles squirms at the last, awkwardly slaps his hand away, stop that>>. Erik just chuckles, deep in the back of his throat. Charles usually loves that laugh.

Inappropriately.

Tonight he kind of hates it.

“The dress,” Erik says and lets him be for a moment, rustling behind him. Charles turns, testing the ways he can move. Hips, side to side, back to front. He has little movement in the latter, but the former seems flexible enough. He doubts he could bend to the side and touch his toe, but it’s something at least. His shoulder blades are constricted, but his arms themselves are fully mobile. He can walk, but he can’t bend his knee past a hundred and some degrees. It’s uncomfortable, degrading.

“Do-,” he stops. Remembers.

Do women really live like this?>>

Erik comes up behind him, the dress bunched in his hands. Charles holds his arms up over his head obligingly. The skin under his arms is paler then the rest. Charles hadn’t thought it possible until he’d dragged the razor over the dark hair.

“I have no idea. I designed this. I imagine so, though, since I took my ideas from existing principles.”

 _He’s trying to rile me up,_ Charles realizes with a flash if indignation. It’s hovering at the edges of Erik’s thoughts, _pleasure_ at Charles’ discomfort.

No. No. He was not doing this. He was in a corset, about to put on a dress. He _would_ keep some measure of dignity.

The dress flutters over his shoulders. Erik tugs it down his sides.

You seem, of late, to have a particular fascination with irritating me, my friend.>>

Erik shrugs and does something with the zipper on the back.

“You’re very pretty when you’re angry and you don’t do it nearly often enough.”

Charles finds it’s slightly more difficult to put his head in hand, now. He has to bend his neck to meet it, instead of the other way around.

Erik strokes a hand backwards through his hair, from the base of the skull to the crown.

“Besides, you’ve always been well in control of your own emotions, Charles. No one’s forcing you into this; you’ve given me your permission more then once, now.”

Charles feels that flush break again across his cheeks. Erik slides a hand around the front of him, settles beneath the empty swell of the cups.

“So the question becomes: Why are you letting me?” He rests his chin on Charles’ shoulder, watching him through the mirror with smouldering eyes.

Charles swallows. He thinks he should say something biting, but that look in Erik’s eyes, that singular expression that leaves the rest of the room burning until there’s nothing but himself and those eyes sends him unmoored. Erik leaves him to ponder this for a long moment, a pointed silence, then tilts his head to press a kiss against a bare arc of skin.

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” he murmurs, still a little sly. Charles closes his eyes, leans into the solid weight at his back.

“Better,” he breathes out.

Erik grins at him in the mirror, all teeth and Charles has a weakness for that smile, he really does because he finds himself smiling back.

**Author's Note:**

> A link to The Dress: http://www.etsy.com/listing/81265139/reserved-for-kelly-1950s-vintage-ceil


End file.
